Om Puri Never Lied to the Camera; He Never Lied to Himself
When Om, or Om ji as I insisted on calling him, came home with his friend and companion Seema Kapoor, he was not feeling well.
Excessive smoking had killed his taste buds. He couldn’t savour any of the food we served him for lunch. At the end of the two hours, Om promised he would take better care of his health.
He never did. He was in hospital with a cancer scare, and again he promised to stop smoking and cut down on his drinking. But unhappy people need an outlet, some kind of numbing comfort for their soul, even artistes as steeped in brilliance as Om.
Here’s looking back at conversations with Om on his death anniversary.
With Om I could be as critical as I wished about his work. He would never take my comments amiss. Normally when actors ask for an honest opinion, they don’t mean it. Om did. Each time I would see him in some frightful corny kitschy cringe-worthy potboiler with his belly hanging down to his knees, I would remind him he was the actor from My Son The Fanatic and The Mystic Masseur (the latter a loving delightful adaptation of V S Naipaul’s novel and one of Om’s unsung gems).
He would remind me of his financial responsibilities.
I’ve a son. He needs careful nurturing. I can’t just sit back and relax. My colleague Naseer’s children are grown up. His responsibilities are over. And besides, he has earned a lot more than me. I’ve been paid peanuts for my efforts. I was paid a mere Rs 7 lakh for playing one of the central characters and working four months non-stop in Raj Kumar Santoshi’s China Gate. I’m sure Naseer must’ve got five times more money for the same film. Surely big filmmakers like Santoshi Saab should be more cautious of my worth. But I’ve no complaints. I may return to theatre, or do a small but meaningful film that gives me satisfaction as an actor.Om Puri, Actor
Om was exhausted of his own prolific output and deeply embittered by his professional and personal conflicts.
In one of our most recent conversations he said to me:
The break has come so suddenly and unexpectedly. Friends like Naseeruddin Shah and Shabana Azmi are in a state of shock. The two actors together with Om formed the titanic triumvirate of non-mainstream actors who changed the way we look at cinema. While Naseer and Shabana have come to terms with their lack of fluency with commercial cinema, Om till the end remained torn between the two extremities represented by Shyam Benegal and David Dhawan.
The meagre remuneration as compared to actors who were stars but much less skilled, bothered Om.
I am being used like a potato in every dish — be it a comedy, thriller or a love story. The bloody bhindi costs Rs 60 per kg. But the price of potato remains unchanged. I have to make my family and myself financially secure. To a large extent I’m already on the way to doing that. If today I decide to migrate to a small town, I don’t have to worry about my income. But I want a little more from my career. I do have certain ideas for films swimming in my head. Sometimes I feel being part of an escapist entertainer is just fine. At other times I feel like addressing myself to issues that bother me.
He was a restless, unhappy man who couldn’t lie to himself, trying till the end to find a peaceful ground in his personal life.
The rage that imploded in his best performances often manifested in foot-in-the-mouth declarations on public platforms, like the one recently about our soldiers. Om repeatedly got into trouble with his unthinking sound bytes. He took the backlash on his chin like a man. But he wasn’t prepared for this one final blow that life dealt on Friday morning.
I miss your gravelly voice on the phone as you spoke out on your personal and professional lives. In spite of my cleaning up, some of the Puri pronouncements when it was published invariably got the actor into trouble. But he never denied his quotes, never said he was misquoted. Om owned up to his mistakes. That’s what made his performances so authentic.
He never lied to the camera. He never lied to himself.
(This article is from The Quint’s archives and was first published on 6 January 2017. It is now being republished to mark Om Puri’s death anniversary.)